Tuesday, December 07, 2004

This time of year, we tend to think about things that we don’t normally think about during the rest of the year. On the fourth Thursday of November we give thanks for what we have because of Thanksgiving. As we near December 25, we take joy from making others around us happy as the Christmas season comes around. We wait to see that gleam of approval in the eye when we know that we gave someone the perfect gift. As the year draws to a close and January 1 jumps to the front of our calendar, we reassess our lives and think about what we should do better. Sometimes, we think about something completely different.

This time of year I remember how every time we got a math test back in high school, one person always received a 100 on the test. That damn kid would then have the audacity to say to the teacher, in front of the whole class mind you, that he wished the teacher would make the test harder next time because he wasn't being challenged. If this was your first day in the classroom you would have hated the kid, until you realized everyone else in the class was laughing, mostly because of the look on this kid’s face - an contagious, ear-to-ear, “I am so clever and cute that you can’t help it” grin.

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This time of year makes everyone think of specific memories. For me, I think of biscuits and chicken and gravy. I think about corn, butter, and plastic silverware. I think of those little rolls and old school high cafeteria lunch trays, the ones with separate sections for each part of the meal. Most importantly I think about how every time this was on the lunch menu, all of my friends knew that we were in for a show. Come lunch, everyone’s favorite chef was going to walk us all through the steps one should take whenever preparing Chef Grant’s Stuffed Buns. The infomercial always ended with an “’Voila!” And that stupid smile.

I think about Global Studies. I think back to one specific class in the 10th grade when my friend grabbed the string to the blinds, which were all the way down, and yanked the string. Only one side of the blinds went up so that the shade was cockeyed as it was pulled up in haste and Grant yelled out, in the middle of a serious lesson, that there was a sniper in the courtyard that was trying to assassinate him. He kept it up the entire class except he could hardly be understood he was laughing so hard.

One time the teacher got so sick of him talking and making wise comments that he moved him to the other side of the room by the door. By the end of class Grant had slid his desk all the way to the back of the class and was facing the other way smiling at the back wall. He was odd like that.
I remember a kid that moved in what seemed like slow motion at all times. He had such a slow delivery when speaking he earned the nickname “Sloth,” but he had a wit so quick that it put us all to shame.

I remember how Grant would propose to our friend Jen every day in science class, even though I wasn't in the class with them. Freshman year, on Valentine’s Day, he brought a long stemmed red rose to school and waited to give it to Jen the minute she walked through the door. Whether he really “loved” her or just loved trying to embarrass her, we may never know, but everyone was smiling either way.

I remember when we were in junior high and we sat in the front row for every home basketball game. When garbage time came Grant’s cousin Dan would finally get in the game and Grant was his biggest fan. He showed this by counting, aloud for everyone near him to hear, Dan’s “ball-touches.”
When we finally made the big show that was Junior Varsity, there were only a couple of regular size pair of shorts that had some length to them. All the rest were short shorts, the kind that remind you of a diaper. I lucked out and bought a longer pair from one of my teammates. Grant didn't fair quite so well. He compensated by pulling his shorts down far enough to reach his knees. This didn't help him run any faster and it didn't make him stop smiling either.

I remember every day after school in the fall of tenth grade, while I went home because I was on varsity, the JV team would be in the pool room lifting and only one person would be walking around the school with his shirt off. And of course, it had to be the scrawniest kid on the team. The last time I saw Grant alive, he was carrying a 25 pound weight around the hall yelling to every girl within earshot. I remember him saying “Hello ladies,” as he flexed and smiled because he knew he was so amusing. After that, I don’t really want to remember...

I remember everything from December 6, 1998. I remember working on my El Salvador project for Spanish class. I remember that my parents got a Christmas tree. I remember making a pizza and not being able to eat. What I don’t want to remember is the phone ringing and picking it up and what everything that I was told implied.

I don’t want to remember walking into school the next day to a building full of silent teenagers, silent except for the crying. I don’t want to remember seeing friends and teachers losing control of their emotions as we tried to come to grips with heartbreak caused by the loss of someone who had touched all our lives. We tried to understand how someone who had never done anything but make us laugh and smile could make us cry uncontrollably. Some of us, myself included, were having our vulnerability exposed for the first time. I don’t want to remember sitting in math class and staring at the seat where the kid looking for a more difficult test should have been sitting, making us laugh. Grant was never going to sit in class with us again.

And so, as I sit here 5 years later I remember Grant Richard Foster. Someone who makes me thankful for my friends. Someone who never stopped smiling and brought joy to my life along with the lives of so many others. Someone who just wanted to see that gleam, not of approval, but of love. Grant was a special person who managed to provide a lifetime full of laughs in a life that ended before it’s time.

I think about Grant Foster every day. Someone who makes me want to be a better person. Someone who makes me want to live life to its fullest and make everyone I ever meet laugh. Someone that makes me glad to just be alive. Someone who gave me a gift that no one can take away.
A gift that many people give daily. A gift of friendship. A gift of love. The gift you give someone when you want them to know that you will be there always, even when you aren't.
I sit here, with a gleam in my eye and a tear on my check, and think about Grant. I sit here and think, I wish you were here, bro.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Well, due to Nashville, Tennessee, there will be no Chronicle this week. SOOOO, here's the column I wanted to put in. It wouldnt seem so time-ish if I waited another week. Coming soon, The Big Trip.

12:05am – It’s time to go to bed. I’m tired and there is a big day ahead. This is going to be a real big day. Bigger than when the Red Sox beat the Yankees. Bigger than...(thought process interrupted by shiney object in corner)

7:36am – Something on my radio woke me up. I’m not sure what it was, but it made me angry. Nothing should interrupt the generic rap-rock montage on 103.1 in the morning. It wakes me up. Will John Kerry get rid of commercials the way the Bush administration has tried to rid the airwaves of a constitutional right? Only time will tell…

9:00am – The awful alarm clock went off. It’s time to start my day off right. This is after all, going to be the day where America collectively gives George W. Bush a boot in the hindquarters the way only Toby Keith could eloquently describe.

9:02am – After a quick stop in the bathroom, (I thought I’d spare you that journal entry.) I walk down the stairs and hear noise in the living room. It was Brian my crazy conservative-Republican roommate watching Fox News. Justin was sitting idly by letting this happen. Every time I see Justin being brainwashed by Brian or Fox News (both of which are menaces to society) a small part of me dies.

9:04am – I enter the kitchen to prepare an egg and cheese sandwich, or as I like to call it...(damn shiney objects)

9:12am – I sit down with my breakfast next to Brian and watch Dick Cheney cast his vote in Wyoming. Certain questions pop into my mind: Why is he voting in Wyoming? Is Wyoming a swing state? Shouldn’t he be voting in D.C. or something? Is he there to personally supervise the operation that will ensure that the one black guy in all Wyoming doesn’t get to vote? Is he there to show the Wyoming Republican’s he’s a "hands-on" evil genius? Why is he taking such a long time in there? What is he doing? Is giving his evil little side-of-the-mouth cackle at the Democrats of Wyoming? Is that a box of Malomars under the couch? Are there any left? Do I really need to shower before work today? What’s on MTV right now? More importantly, what’s on VH1 Classic?

9:18am – Justin and Brian left the living room and I was able to regain my rightful control over the remote. On MTV XZibit is telling us to get out of Iraq and into Selma. This is part of the Vote Or Die thing. I just put my foot through the television. I hate P. Diddy.

9:30am – Shower time! You should have seen the comical away message I put up! Ha ha! Wait, here it is: “Showering for democracy.” God, where do I come up with this stuff?

9:52am – Time to walk to work. There’s a bum picking through the garbage. There’s somebody asking me for a quarter. Are these two voting?

10:01am – I arrived at work a single minute late to keep my Days Late streak alive. I actually stopped outside and waited for the clock to turn. My record 47 days in a row late continues. I feel like Randy Moss.

10:03am – I settled into my chair for a long day of nothing. I check the internet to see what the latest political analysis is. Fox News has declared decisive victories for Bush in swing states where polling has either (a) not started, or (b) been open for less than 5 minutes. I find it refreshing to see a news organization that doesn’t get bogged down by details and such.

10:26am – Since I’ve been up for well over an hour now, I need a large amount of caffeine. Snaking a big cup of Mountain Dew is the only answer. I leave my computer confident that the right votes are being cast as polls open around the nation.

11:38am – For the first time I hear the word “shenanigans” used by a political analyst. It is used in a story about Michael Moore putting video cameras in Ohio and Florida polling places to ensure Republicans aren't up to their dirty tricks.

Noon – I turn on Green Day’s American Idiot and get depressed. I’m depressed because I can feel the loss in the air. I understand that the odds facing democracy are almost insurmountable. As a nation we were given a choice between two men whose differences are not essentially different. We’ve been given a choice between George W. Bush and John “Anybody-but-Bush” Kerry. The fact that Kerry is nothing more than a default challenger is disheartening to say the least. As I watched the debates unfold on television I witnessed John Kerry be matched and even outspoken in some eyes by a president who is by consensus, a poor public speaker. The cream of the Democratic crop only gets votes because he is a Democrat – not because he is the choice the people whom he supposedly represents.

1:30pm – I go home and make myself a couple of sandwiches before I settle down for a couple hours of Tony Hawk Underground 2. Most people are taking their breaks to vote today. Not I. I cast my absentee ballot weeks ago for my man Ralph Nadar. The only wasted vote is one not cast and I stand by my choice. Without a viable third-party candidate we are doomed to face default opposing views for the rest of our lives as the “right” and “left” further blur as they slide towards a generic middle. We’re headed towards a day where the only difference between Democrat and Republican is the color of their ties. God forbid politicians have a thought any more liberal than, “Sure, free speech is important, but does it need to be that free?”

2:03pm – I end fifteen minutes of frustration by finally landing one of Bam’s 50 point challenges.

2:34pm – Perturbed with not being able to figure out how to get “rocket air,” I take a break to write the following about the cafeteria: “We went to dinner last Saturday in the cafeteria to enjoy some of the wondrous RFoC that we’ve so sorely missed now that we’ve moved off campus. As the cafeteria was closing down we were among the last to leave. We were walking towards the doors in the back when one of the cafeteria workers stopped us to offer a fresh baked pizza that would be thrown out if no one took it. We graciously accepted the pizza as it was free and we figured we could find someone to eat it. It’s not like you can walk very far on State Street without being met with a hard luck story. Anyway, as the anonymous worker was putting the pizza in plastic wrap one of the tie-wearing (this is one of those parts of the story where I wish I could go uncensored and explain just what kind of people are in charge upstairs.)
*Now that this is on the web I can actually write the words I want to without being censosred. What I meant to say was something along the lines of "fucking jerkoffs."*
...fellows walked out and asked what was going on. “No food can leave the cafeteria.” He then picked up the whole pizza and threw it in the garbage in front of our very eyes. In case you aren’t following, this phallic symbol would rather waste food than see it go to use. Even if it where going to be eaten by the students who pay – what is it? – Nine-plus (9+) dollars a meal in the cheapest meal plan. What a joke. Pathetic. I give great thanks to those who work in the cafeteria and prepare the food both behind the doors and the food stations. I think I can speak for a whole campus when I say thanks for the hard work, but (rhymes with duck) *FUCK* management.

3:55pm – I successfully land a sit-flip into an acid drop off the ramp with Paulie. Only 250 more points until I can move past Barcelona.

5:00pm – I arrive back at work to watch the election and earn a little bit of my measly paycheck.

7:00pm – Polls start to close on the East Coast. Kerry will win the first state and it’s – VERMONT! Woo-hoo! Yes! Jubilation washes over Democrats nation-wide as we captured Vermont. Oh, sweet victory! I’ve been to the mountaintop and have seen the other side! 267 electoral votes away! Yippee!

8:23pm – Since Vermont, Bush has won the next 5(?) 7(?) states. While Vermont’s big 3 electoral votes are nice and all, it might be nice if Kerry were to carry a state that actually mattered in the race. I know – call me a dreamer.

8:42pm – Kerry has picked up a few more states and all the networks have it about even. I call my roommate Brian to listen for worry in his voice. He uses “if” a lot and I know that the Democrats at least have those damn conservatives thinking twice.

8:43pm – I’m seeing red. The heart of the electoral map is red and the Northeast is blue. FOX has just conceded victory for George Bush in 12 more states, 3 commonwealths, Panama, and Barbara Streisand’s house. It’s something like 242 – 37 by FOX’s count. It’s basically New England versus THE REST OF AMERICA! Oh, wait, we’re going to get Hollywood and D.C. I feel like I’m watching a *fucking* Yankee game. Everybody up here is rooting for the guys in blue but in every other major market they’ve pre-empted the game for reruns of Meth and Red.

9:31pm – Done with work I make it home to find two of my roommates perched in front of FOX News. There goes a little bit more of me.

10:17pm – While flipping through channels I land on CBS where Dan Rather is accusing Richard Nixon of fixing the 2004 election. Why does Dan Rather still have a job?

11:00pm – It’s becoming increasingly clear that we’re headed for the same mess as last year. Every network has a different vote count. The main theme though – unfortunately – is a Bush lead. Take heart Bush-haters, California hasn’t been counted yet.

11:01pm – Democrats start your engines! California and its 55 electoral votes have just been counted! However, he still trails on every channel. Feel free to still start your engines, but keep the garage doors closed.

Midnight – While Bush stays up on every channel we’re still waiting for the big “strong finish” people keep saying Kerry will have.

12:30am – Somebody on FOX News just said shenanigans.

12:48am – I have officially taken to my bed. Exasperation has washed over me – if that’s even possible. Florida has been called for Bush. Ohio is the last gasp. If you open the window and stick your head out you can almost hear the death rattle of this utterly heartbreaking campaign. Do you have any idea how much money was just thrown away for this whole political theatre? Something around 5 or 6 hundred billion dollars. How many people could that have fed for a year? How many underprivileged people could have been helped? In any way. Buy the country new shoes. I’m sure if you bought in bulk Nike could give you a discount. I hate politicians. 600,000,000,000 dollars to NOT CHANGE ANYTHING! That’s eleven (11!) zeros!

12:49am – I get out of bed to start packing. I hear Canada is beautiful in the winter. I’ll ride a moose to work and not have to worry about falling off because, well, universal health care!

1:24am – I fall asleep with the television on, hoping they find some extra ballot boxes in Florida and Ohio. Anything. I don’t care. Can Mexico choose to take Texas back now? Or New Mexico.

2:30am - I wake up from my slumber hoping that somehow a bunch of ballot boxes were found floating in Lake Michigan chock full of Kerry-punches while I snoozed with the television on. No such luck. I dejectedly turn of the TV and go to bed.

8:46am – This didn’t happen. Although none of the networks will acknowledge a winner. In fact no two stations have the same electoral count. Nine hours of counting and projecting and guessing and we can’t even come to a consensus number to sit on.

9:12am - I realize that Kerry/Edwards didn’t win North Carolina. John Edwards is FROM NORTH CAROLINA! Why did Kerry pick him? Because he looks young? I was under the impression Edwards was on the ticket so that Kerry had a connection in the South. Christ, Dick Gephardt could have lost North Carolina. Kerry didn’t need Edwards help to lose North Carolina! Nadar didn’t need help losing North Carolina! What a joke! I bet Cheany delivered his home state. Let me check. Yup. He’s from Wyoming. That answers all the questions I had twenty-four hours ago.

9:30am – I’m go to my computer and e-mail this article. Next I’m going to shower and head to Wal-Mart for supplies because I’m moving to Canada. On the way there I’m going to burn down Ohio. Idiots. We pulled our weight in New York. Fuck.

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

It’s been a rough couple of days. I’ve become preoccupied with the (please-dear-God-please) fall of Ashlee Simpson. I’ve had trouble sleeping and I start every conversation with, “Did you hear what happened to that worthless bitch?”
I’m forcing myself to move on. I’m not going to talk about acid reflux disease and doing jigs on national television.
I think instead I’m going to talk about squirrels. I think I’m going to do a study about the changing of the guard as squirrels overtook monkeys as the funniest animals on the planet. I think the tide really started to turn with that commercial where the squirrels cause the accident and do their little celebration handshake. The culmination of the transition was probably the Jimmy Dean sausage commercial. Monkeys were played out after Dustin Checks In bombed at the box office. Then again why would anyone open a film with a monkey the same week as a Leo film dropped? Obviously the studio wasn’t thinking about Dustin’s career. Mirimax knew enough to move Jersey Girl from the same weekend the final Matrix film was set to open. Not a February opening could erase the fact that Gigli had been made. Fuck. Not even God could erase the fact that Gigli was made. How do I know that? Well, if He could have He would have. No almighty being would ever wish that upon its most fucked up and demented creation.

So I was walking home from work today and a guy with a huge duffle bag full of cans who was picking through the garbage cans on my street asked me for fifty cents. I of course lied and said no and kept walking. As I passed him by he explained how he was just trying to help himself. Looking back I can appreciate his honesty because I otherwise would have been under the impression that he was saving up cans and quarters to help the Old English brewers from going out of business.
About 10 minutes later I walked back up the street to go to Ben’s and he accosted me again. I again explained how I had no money on my person and kept walking. Then he commented on my shirt and asked if I was going to call security on him. I remember thinking, “Yeah, this is definitely a job for Dave.” Just picture Dave and Joe Muir chasing bums down State Street. Then picture Dave, Joe, and the bums running the other direction being chased by squirrels.

Sorry about that. I couldn’t stop laughing.

Anyway, these conversations with my nomadic friend got me to thinking. What are some good ways to alleviate confrontations with the domically challenged? Here’s what our crack staff at 6(8)9 State has come up with thus far. I’m not going to take credit for all of them as we were spitballing ideas in the living room earlier. Don’t worry though, we’ll take care of them next clean-up day.

If somebody asks you for fifty cents, use a poker mentality and go over the top. Ask if they have a dollar you can borrow.
What if they have a story and it involves bus fare? Ask if they go to Saint Rose and explain that the student ID gets you on certain CDTA buses for free. If they say no (which is likely in most cases) tell them that its not too late to get in an application for the Spring semester.

If they are looking for gas money inquire as to the whereabouts of their car. Use a line like, “Kind of putting the horse before the wagon, eh, friend?” Bums love analogies.

TIP: If you are out carrying around beer when presented with a derelict do not offer them one. She will most likely end up making fun of you and accuse you of “not knowing what to do with a pussy if you had one.” Ask Justin and Mike about this one.

What if while playing beer pong in your backyard a filthy couple wanders up to the fence? Explain that you don’t have a spare bed, but you have an air mattress, a big living room, three couches, and a lot of friends who like to watch. Since they’ll probably agree to it for a warm place to sleep, keep a tiki torch lit nearby to light them on fire.

Here’s one for a fifty cent request: Explain that the guy around the corner asked for 50 cents as well, but all you had was a dollar. Why don’t you split it with him? After all, he only needed 50 cents.

Remember, the best defense is a good offense. If you see him or her coming, make the first move and ask them for money. Give them a hard luck story about getting jumped by some guys on the way back from the bar last night.

Tell them you don’t have any cash on you but you’ll write them a check. Then after you ask how much they want, explain that you don’t have two forms of ID on you and rip up the check right in front of their eyes. But make sure there’s a nice round dollar amount like twenty bucks or so to really get a reaction.

When asked if you have a quarter get really excited! “Oh, are you in the scavenger hunt too?” When they say no, explain that one of the items on the list is a bag of cans and bottles. Then tell them you do have an extra quarter if they have multiple bags of cans. Offer a fair trade.

I think I could stretch this into an entire chapter of a book. That would give me one chapter done. Two days in a row. Chew on that.

Monday, October 25, 2004

What a worthless bitch Ashlee Simpson turned out to be huh folks? Sorry if I’m a bit obsessed with what could be the beginning of the end for this talent-less dunce, but not much goes on in my life.
I haven’t updated the “blogger” in a while so I thought I’d whip something together and toss it in the old “internet.”
I’m almost done with school. It’s fucking scary to think that soon I won’t have my cushy do-nothing job at Ed Media to go to everyday and I will no longer be able to say “I go to Saint Rose.” I think I might get a job with SECURITY…
We went to Kmart today and I got two new pairs of boxers, so that’s one thing that I’ve done recently. Bombers on Sunday afternoon is a very chill place. You can just order up a few pints with the fellas and get drunk by 4 o’clock, which is nice if you are facing a degree in communications with which I have no idea what I’m going to do. Apparently it’s been so long since I’ve written anything of length that it actually hurts my wrist to sit here and type more than “lol” “nothin” “Chillin” or “bored.” What a big silly a-hole I am!
So what else has been going on? Well, Clean-Up Day, the day where we were going to clean the house never took place. I know, I’m as surprised as you. I actually cleaned my room and knocked out the mountain of dishes in the kitchen. In addition to that I also took back 13 dollars in cans and bottles. I then used the money on a 12 pack of Sam Adams Summer Ale and started the collection of bottles from scratch. And people say I haven’t done anything this semester.
I hate my new phone. Apparently I’ve fucked it up pretty good as the screen goes black or just doesn’t show any icons – which is really awesome. Seriously, I love this flip phone. It’s so necessary like jeans with no panties. Speaking of jeans with no panties, is that really what Jay-Z says in that song? I would think that would be uncomfortable. I’m just sayin…

Boy, I hope you have all been on the edge of your seats reading this shit. I’m still wrestling with my Halloween costume. The Ghostbusters thing doesn’t appear to be moving forward. I know its surprising because our group does such a high percentage of the things we discuss and deem “awesome!” What a bunch of jackasses.
I think I’m going to go as some middle-class white guy who’s fed up with his wife. Like Scott Peterson and all the other guys like him. If any ladies are interested we can make it into a “his n’ her” thing. That is, if any of you ladies want to explain your costume next Sunday by saying “Oh, I’m covered in mud because I was found in a riverbed. I’m trophy-wife, with child” I’ll be carrying around a shovel and a receipt for my new mattress. I might even take it a step further and be the guy that gets away with it. I’ll call my costume, “The American Working Man’s Dream.”

The only other ideas I’ve had are Journey’s Greatest Hits and “guy on ostrich.” I’m not sure which one is more gay. I suppose if the ostrich is female, it’s not gay though. I think that’s all for today. I’ll try….I repeat….TRY to update more regularly. Everyday maybe, but I need somebody to prod me in the ass (in a strictly heterosexual way for this purpose) and keep me writing. It’s not that I’m that unmotivated it’s that I crave attention like the cock. Did I mention the freshman who was excited to meet me? I know what you’re thinking, but no she didn’t have a burlap sack to cover her monstrously large head. She was probably a tad bit retarded, but we’re all God’s children, yada yada yada…

Thursday, August 26, 2004

A couple of notes and a little news.
Obviously right now, the most exciting thing in my life is that METALLICA IS COMING TO THE PEPSI! Since I saw “Albany show added” I’ve had little else on my mind.
I know, I’ll go right back to my Dungeons and Dragons after the concert.
Fucking Metallica, dude. Metallica are Gods. Musical, little-guy-not-looking-out-for, Gods, but who gives a fuck? Godsmack is opening for them. Godsmack is the opening band. Godsmack is a huge band, which just goes to show you how big Metallica is. Not many groups have that kind of stature. The Stones, Metallica, Dylan…who else? Not even Hasslehof has that kind of drawing power.
School is starting Monday. I’ve already written half a semester’s articles for the piece of shit Chronicle. This being my last semester I would really like to tear everybody a new asshole, but I’ve found myself more and more passive recently. Perhaps it’s the PS2. I guess Saint Rose can thank John Madden and the nice people at EA Sports (It’s in the game) for my lack of general disgust with the population – mostly because I never leave my house to experience these people, but why bother with semantics.
I just took a look at this thing and it’s been over a month since I “blogged.” I don’t know if its because blogs are super gay and it took me two months to come to terms or because I’m just a fat lazy jackass. Little bit of column A – little bit of column B.
I was all ready to go off on why I thought the Yankees and Red Sox should die, but that was back during the Yanks/Sox series. Now a month later they aren’t playing and the media has gone back to really not giving much of a shit about the Red Sox, which is nice. The fucking Yankees are still everywhere, but what are you going to do? With a Republican government we’ll never be rid of those baseball fat cats. What we need here is a middle of the road candidate who will phase out the Yankees which will leave the Red Sox and their fans no reason to continue on with their hollow lives. What I mean to say is, without the Yankees the Red Sox fans would have nothing to obsess about. It’s kind of like the nerdy guy who has a huge crush on the hottest girl in school. In the movies he might stand a chance, but in real life, he’s never going to get to fuck her. All that obsession so that he can jerk off. Which is essentially what the Red Sox do come autumn. Then the Red Sox have renewed optimism while they bitch about how the series was stolen/blown/given away. No matter what happens, the next day all these jackass Sox fans are wandering around with their tails between their legs and yet still saying “We’re going to kick the Yankee’s Asses next year.” They really are an odd species that should be studied. Red Sox fans are Jews-during-Hitler oppressed. The only difference is that some of the Jews survived. No Red Sox fan will ever see the end of this incredible streak of ineptitude, only broken up by flashes of competence that do nothing more than raise hopes up a little higher before sending them crashing to the ground like Dick Van Dyke over the goddamn ottoman. (If you have read a better mixed and twisted metaphor anywhere in the last 7 years, I’ll give you a fucking dollar.)
Another issue that I brought up in my last post was the Lindsay Lohan thing. I hope its soon, but I don’t think I could marry her. She’s a party girl and all – which is cool. However, she’s currently dating Fez – which is Rebecca Romaijn-Stamos confusing. I need a nice girl, like Hilary Duff or Ally Hilfiger.
That is six celebrity references in one paragraph, which is about 4 more than is FDA approved. Honestly, when I start writing a fucking MSNtertainment Gossip column its time to get a fucking life, no?

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

Does anyone else think its coincidence that William Hung disappeared from the face of the earth just as another “artist” entered our lives? Ashlee Simpson arrived at a very convenient time don’t you think? I do. I think its part conspiracy and part pity.
Just as one horrible act falls from the public eye another rises to prominence. While I despise whoever is in charge of whatever leads to this shit, I also have to thank them. If Ashlee Simpson were to be on television at the same time as Willia… Fuck. I can’t even bring myself to put both their names in the same sentence. If they were to appear on TV at the same time I would probably throw something through the television. I’m just guessing the timing is to deter mass suicide in the MTV viewing populous.

Has anyone seen Brooke Hogan? You might have caught her on VH1’s Inside (Out) : Hulk Hogan, Stage Dad. Now Brooke Hogan – there’s a woman! She’s hot and yet off limits to little queers like Aaron Carter! Why? Because Hulk Hogan would break his fucking face, that’s why! Carter, who has been in the public eye for years, seemed like an akward little kid around the Hogan family! He seemed like the pimply little fuck that he is!

Personally I think that the Hulkster needs to kick the ass of Jessica and Ashlee’s dad. That jerk is giving Nick Leche shit? All the shit Nick has to put up with and you’re not being cool as hell to the poor boy? As long as Nick Leche never roots for either the Yankees or Red Sox, I will always have respect for him. He’s a guy’s guy. So what if he’s a semilebrity.

And after Hulk Hogan kicks Mr. Simpson’s ass, we can get rid of Ashlee completely and then fire Ryan Cabrera out of a cannon towards Puerto Rico. He’s going to be in the Capital Region next week (August 10, 2004) on a Dutch Apple Cruise! How do you like that? It’s going to be part of a “Oysters and Pearls Party” and Fly 92 is going to be there hosting! I hope that means he made to eat prairie oysters and given a pearl necklace by Brian Cody or some totally demeaning shit like that.

You know, I’ve just realized that if by some stroke of luck I ever get famous – and someone who had suffered a stroke would have to be involved in whatever decision process made me famous – I might actually have to deal with these people in person. I think I had better find some bigger friends. Not that I’m altogether worried about Aaron Carter or Ryan Cabrera, but what if the Mr. Hogan took offense to my calling his daughter a “babe?” Shit, man.
I think I’ll run down to Clinton Avenue after work today and enlist a proper entourage in the case that I do get famous. If I can’t find any takers, I’ll just buy some crack. No matter what, I’m going to leave in better shape than I went in!

Tuesday, August 03, 2004

Okay. It’s been what? A week since I last put anything up? Something like that. I feel kind of bad because I know my many readers (Lauren) are probably salivating at the thought of more rantings and I’m here sitting on my thumbs (awkward yet sitting on the arm of a couch interesting at the same time) while you wait for me to post something. I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.

I don’t really have anything to “say” as it were, but I still feel the blog must go on. “For the kids,” as The Who would persuade me to do. So without further ado, some random shit for the sake of random shit.

I haven’t heard anyone speculate, on ESPN.com or elsewhere about Smarty Jones' recent retirement and what the real story is. Personally, I think this past year’s triple-crown threat was inspired by close friend Rickey Williams recent retirement. Was it Smarty Jones' “injury” that forced his retirement or is it because he too, wanted to be put out to pasture with all the green grass?

Keeping with the horse racing theme, Ben, Finegan, and myself went to the track Sunday. Nobody made any money, but I almost won on a 23-1 shot losing by half a horse. Fuck Saratoga. I take back all the shit I wrote in CRL about the “ambiance.” The ambiance at Saratoga is summed up in a bunch of people, overdressed for the weather sweating balls. I’m working on a new tagline for the Saratoga…SARATOGA…commercials. Here’s something off the top of my head:

It is now post time
And Party time!
Time for breakfast in a crowded grandstand…
And 6 dollar beers in the scorching sun…
You’ve blown your paycheck…
Now its time to leave…
Saaaratogaaa….SAAARATOGAAA!

Either way, I want to go back next week. I think I’ve developed a gambling problem, but hey, why not go for the triple crown of addiction? One final note on Saratoga: The women are amazing. I could hardly drink my 9 dollar beer while dragging my jaw around all afternoon. And the fucking car show of Benz, Jag, Caddy…Maybe the best I could do was Ben and Mike because I’m driving a 94 Buick and had to park on somebody’s fucking lawn.

Seriously though, what the fuck is Lindsay Lohan doing with Fez? Fuck man, FEZ! I need to get famous fast! I want to be married to and divorced from that girl by 24. Once I’ve got money and a flippin’ sweet ride, I’m going to roll up to Saratoga with LL and bet 100 bucks on every long shot all damn day long. I’ll miss the breakfast on enchanted mornings because I’ll be busy serving Lindsay breakfast in bed.

Saturday, July 24, 2004

My thoughts on why Fenway Park should burn tomorrow, July 25, 2004.…How a trip to Montreal goes when I go with my family for a day instead of my friends for a weekend…An in depth look at why no one actually visits either of my blogs…Some thoughts on why anyone with a mustache looks like a dirty Mexican…except my father…Top Ten reasons we need a keg-erator at my house…A one-sided foolishly optimistic debate about how long until I am famous enough to date Lindsay Lohan…

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Let me explain to you how someone so deep into the pop-culture our nation is emerged in can thoroughly enjoy shows like The Simple Life, Real World, Newlyweds, and Rich Girls and yet completely despise Ashlee Simpson.
It’s actually quite simple – “Ashlee” as this little strumpet’s show is aptly named is the most contrived reality show ever – a feat that should not be over looked in the history of television. In a genre where the whole concept is to keep recycling a formula, this piece of shit really goes above and beyond reality. From the confessionals this idiot gives, to the stupid shit that happens to her in “real life,” you can almost smell the rat producers cooking up more “confrontation” for our little starlet to happen upon. Where to start?
How about the “boyfriend.” This little bitch and her “punk-rock” geek amazingly realize there is a sexual attraction between them during this wannabe male Avril Lavigne’s video shoot. All of a sudden these two 19-year olds who have been best friends forever or something clichéd shit like that, make out. And when Jackoff (isn’t that his name?) does something that is less than right the arguments make Nick and Jess come off like a presidential debate.
Which brings me to the fucking bitches voice. Gravely and yet high pitched at the same time she “doesn’t want to be like her sister.” Well dummy, a reality show on MTV directly after your sister’s show on the same network, doesn’t exactly bode well for the whole “I’m blazing a new fucking trail” spiel.
The recording sessions, which take up about 5 minutes of every show, which I assume is what the whole thing is supposed to be about, are painful and repetitive. How many times can we watch her fuck up “uh huuuuh?” And then there is the idiot producer who is so starved for work that he’s humoring this “artist.” And in case you missed the theme, they are soooooo close! Fuck both of them.
Fuck her punk rock boyfriend. Fuck anyone in my age group that’s on television. (Except Ally Hilfiger...I still love Ally.)

If you want to be the anti-Jessica Simpson you missed the fucking boat. Her name was Avril Lavigne and we’re already sick of her. She’s the anti-pop pop icon. Like Frankie, she’s too punk rock for you. So dye your hair whatever fucking color you think makes you an “individual.”

Why am I writing like I’m actually talking to this girl? Odd how voice can change so quickly, eh? Well, I think I’m done venting about this poor girl. After all, don’t all younger siblings just want to move out from the shadow of big brother or sister? It’s a curse and here I am chastising the girl for doing what every other little goes through. What a callus prick I am. Shame on me.
Oh well…I still hope a circus bear attacks her. Not a wild bear. I’m talking about an enslaved bear who faces the humiliation of wearing a stupid hat and riding a tricycle every day. You know, a really pissed off at the world mother fucking bear. Until next time… stay punk rock everybody.

Monday, July 19, 2004

I live with a very patriotic American. His name is Justin Hadley and he is very patriotic in case you missed the previous sentence. Let me explain to you how Justin is the kind of forward thinking individual that is making the Bush Whitehouse a formidable opponent to any liberal thinking group who wishes to have a semi-competent person in charge of our nation.

Before I delve further I must apologize to my good friend Brian. I realize that I do a lot of “conservative bashing.” However as a quasi-journalist/wannabe lampooner of current events it is my job… neigh… my duty to stab at those who are in power. Once John Kerry is inaugurated in January, I will begin my campaign to find a replacement for him. The point is Brian, in a two-party system where only the most intense nitpicking can help one to distinguish between one side of the political divide and the other, we are forced with the responsibility of picking the lesser of two evils.
My point is – I can’t really go back to middle of the road independent until after we’ve got Bush back in Texas and the troops back in America. Unfortunately, those two are one and the same. The chicken or the egg? Apples and apples. We can’t have one without the other and I’m sure that most everyone left of the median will agree with that.
So until 2005 the best I can do for you is Dick Gephardt jokes and they aren’t too funny. Here I’ll give you an example:

How many Gephardt supporters does it take to screw in a light bulb?

It’s a trick question - Unless they pay somebody to hold the ladder for his wife it can’t be done.

Now back to Mr. America a.k.a. Justin Hadley. Recently Justin got a job at the Coffee Beanery in Crossgates Mall (Motto: Suppressing the First Amendment rights of shoppers since 2002).
I was sitting in the living room watching SPORTSCENTER mentally preparing for work when I realized how intigral Justin Hadley was to President Bush’s plan to save America. Those of you who have memories that hold more information that various Chris Jericho quotes from I Love The 90’s know that GWB encouraged Americans to get out and spend to stimulate the economy. This is after all, how we will beat the terrorists – pre-ripped jeans from Abercrombie and chairs that massage your balls from Brookstone.
The moral of the story is this, Justin as an employee of the Coffee Beanery provides energy producing caffeinated beverages to loyal Americans trying to stimulate the economy on the advice of our president.
He is therefore, a Economy Stimulator Stimulator. The uber-American! He’s the guy that stretches out gymnasts before the floor routine. He is the fluffer on the porno set.

So ladies and gentlemen - that is what’s up with the economic recovery. So thank you, Justin Hadley. John Ashcroft shall sing you a beautiful song, my friend. Perhaps a Bruce Springsteen joint. Something truly patriotic.

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

Wow, what a weekend. We had a couple kegs, had some people over, saw some fireworks. It was everything the 4th weekend should be. Probably most importantly, Fahrenheit 9/11 surpassed $60 million in ticket sales. Sure it only did $21 million this weekend, but it can be difficult when Spiderman II grabs some $105 million.
It’s just nice to have Michael Moore out there so I have proof to show my conservative roommates when they start that whole “Bush is doing a pretty good job” spiel. I didn’t think a victory could mean as much to me as when the Marlins beat the evil Yankees last fall, but I think Kerry/Edwards over Junior will top it.
Speaking of the Marlins, what a fucking slide they are on. We’ve managed to get 4 fish on the All-Star team (Jack might have something to do with it, but they’ve earned their births) and yet we are in a terrible falloff that has left us 3 games (at press time) behind the Phils – those rat bastards. The wild card is going to be very tightly contested this year, so the Marlins need to get their heads out of the fishing-holes and win the East.
Anyway, who cares about the Marlins besides me? No one? I thought not. Lets talk about my wardrobe.
Right now I’m wearing an orange shirt my mother purchased for me at Express for Men. In the store, amongst shirts of its ilk, it looked very nice. Now, far away from Crossgates, on me, it just looks gay. This shirt is all sorts of questionable. Also, while shopping at Express, one of the sales guys kind of tried to sell me underwear. I’m not positive, but I think I was being hit on. Either way it was a bit creepy. My mother sort of gave me the “a friend of yours?” look.
An interesting twist at the internship today. I came in and the Art Director’s desk was cleared off. An odd thing to see in the middle of putting an issue together don’t you think? Apparently she found another job. I hope it’s at the Metroland, they don’t have enough flowers in that magazine if you ask me. Everyone at the Metroland is way too busy shoving their maybe-maybe not-a-gay-hippie-with-a-typewriter opinions down your throat without so much as on iota of regard for whether or not you give a fuck about some former wannabe Vietnam vet street poet on the corner of Clinton and Lark who thinks it’s Jerry Jennings fault that he doesn’t have a job. Go down to Lark, listen to the Burners U.K. and fuck off you insufferable jack-offs. P.s. your calendar of events rocks!
If you want to get my attention with an article, give me two-thousand words on the guy that invented the 10 cent wings or why the fuck Paesan’s is so popular. All the great and cheap pizza in this city and we’re all addicted to the only pizza that makes you sick after 2 slices? Almost 2 bucks for a slice? What, are we at the mall or something?
I have to go do some actual work now. Not that anyone is reading this shit.

Thursday, July 01, 2004

So last night I’m sitting at Ben’s house with Vinny and we’re watching some God awful movie on HBO on Demand. It was some ridiculous story about “stereotypes” and everyone in the flick had a problem. Well Boo-fucking-hoo. The oddest part of the flick was easyily a scene where a well-to-do prick was getting a bagel and had a problem with the ghetto-fabulous girl at the counter. He explained that it wasn’t her fault she was the way she is because of the rap music and such. The girl was offended and, while moving her head side to side saying things like “nuh-uh mista, you ignat,” explained that he was stereotyping her and that she played cello in the New York City Ballet! Well, this pretentious jack off knew better than that. “You almost had me going there for a moment,” he said. She then told him off and went on break. Normally, this would just be a stupid after school special where we all learned a lesson, except the guy was black and the girl was white. My question is who was the genius fucking casting director behind this one? Why I shared the most inconsequential part of my evening here, I don’t know.
Back on track…we decided we needed beer. So I volunteered to go get some. While I’m at Price Chopper this lady – who probably lost her job as a greeter at Wal-Mart for continually wandering into the Dale Earnhardt Jr isle – checks me out. While scanning my 18 pack, this P.I. in training noticed a tear in the box. Now I, as a person with a bit of common sense had duly noted said tear and was transporting the box not by the handles but – gasp! – by carrying it from the bottom. I just thought to myself, what would a person who hadn’t been hit in the head with a free weight do in this situation? I often ask myself questions. It keeps me on my toes.
Anyway, after Jessica Fletcher noticed the tear she started doing risk management and decided I needed a bag – for an 18-pack of bottles. Having watched a countless number of high school dropouts operate these bags before, she knew exactly what to do. She took a paper bag and put it inside a plastic bag.
“Okay,” I thought to myself, “now that we’ve bagged a bag, we’re really in business. Obviously a plastic bag cannot support an 18 so we’ll put the 18 in a paper bag to help redistribute the weight.”
It all seemed so simple to her. Keep in mind all the while I’m telling this woman that I don’t need a bag and that I understand the concept of the tear. I argued that I could get the box to my car in the same manner that I got it to the cashier – carrying it like any other primate would – by the fucking bottom of the box.
But no, Da Vinci here has to reinvent the wheel so that I can get home safely. She continued to struggle with the box until she had to call for back up. She got the attention of the normal looking kid who was a few isles down bullshitting with another cashier. As he approached he saw what she was attempting and got that “What the fuck are you doing, little kid?” look. She explained how there was a tear in the box and had to do her civic duty and protect my beer – which I do appreciate. When she finally navigated the box into the paper bag inside the plastic bag she triumphantly proclaimed “No beer is going to spill in the parking lot tonight!” We exchanged high-fives and she sprinted to the deli to wonder where exactly does the meat go at night? Does the butcher eat it? Is it magical? Then she probably would go get a mop to clean up the nosebleed she would get from contemplating something with such cosmic significance before spending the rest of the evening arguing with her invisible parrot who she should marry tonight, Mr. Clean or the Brawny Man.
Now for the best part of the night - at some point during my drive home, I ran over a screw and won a flat tire in the raffle that is life. Needless to say I was about as excited as Mary Kate Olsen at the Olive Garden – All the breadsticks you can eat, but not more than you can throw up!
So lucky me, I got to change my first tire! Unfortunately I only had a donut, and I drive a Buick. I might as well have used the steering wheel. I’m just kidding, it works fine. It looks about as natural as George Bush leading a country. Oh, shit.
Since I was at Ben’s house, he coached me through it like any good dad would – by continuing to provide me with Labatts. All it took was a little elbow grease and twenty minutes. All in all it was a fun night. I know I can’t wait to deal with the garage.

In other news

Sadaam doesn’t seem too impressed with the new Iraqi legal system – rumor has it the government is trying to hire Sam Waterson as the prosecuting attorney. Ben Matlock for the defense, anyone?

The White House is encouraging constituents to ignore Michael Moore and Fahrenheit 9/11. Meanwhile RNC supporters are trying to get the film banned. At least everyone is on the same page. It’s tough to suppress so many free speech issues at once. We’ve got Howard Stern’s potty mouth and Michael Moore’s un-patriotism to quell before we worry about the petty stuff – like getting Americans out of harms way. You know, stuff that can just be put on the backburner.

Reuters reported on June 25 that Fox and ABC are in a race to see who can be the first to show a new reality show based on switching married couples.

“Tentatively titled ‘Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy,’ the forthcoming Fox show is expected to premiere in late summer ahead of ABC's much-ballyhooed ‘Wife Swap,’ currently scheduled to launch Sept. 29.”

Those of you who are into Dave Chappelle know that he did a spoof of reality shows during his first season about a show call “Trading Spouses.” What the fuck is going on here. Can Chappelle sue? I literally did a spit take when I saw the commercial for “Trading Spouses.” What’s next, “Who Knows Black People?” So, is this art, imitating art, imitating art, imitating reality? Or is it art, imitating skewered reality, imitating art, parodying art, imitating reality? Oh, wait, it’s not art – it’s just fucking stupid. When Dave did it, it was clever and humorous. Now it’s just going to be stupid. And yes, I’ll be watching it.

Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Bullshit it was fun. I pretended to work and I ate some pizza - basically a full day in my life. The highlight came at 11 when Mike called and asked if Miller Lite was okay for our kegs. We would have had PBR but the retard that "helped" Mike yesterday gave him the run-around because well, who the fuck knows. If this jerk-off hadn’t been a complete moe, we might be awaiting the arrival of two gorgeous PBR kegs.
So we went from a high quality, amazing, delicious, scrumptious keg of Pabst Blue Ribbon to Miller Lite. Now I know what you're saying "But Stephen, Miller Lite is running for President of beer! Surely it must be good." To this I would obviously respond by saying the following "Yeah dumbass? Well George Bush is our president so how fucking bad must Miller Lite taste if that's the president of beers?"
PBR is a Blue Ribbon beer! Its award winning. It's like saving up a whole lot of money to get a really highly recommended hooker and then finding out she's already booked so you just have the President come to your bachelor party...whoopdifuckingdo. Metaphor or no metaphor, Miller Lite is a kick in the knickers compared to PBR.
Then this afternoon I ate a couple of chicken wings, drank a beer and watched Ocean’s 11. Isn’t Julia Roberts amazing!? What a woman. She’s so elegant and beautiful. Please. She’s like the Versace that ate right. Speaking of Versace, have you seen the niece that just inherited half the empire? WOW! What a looker, huh? Make you wonder what they have in the drinking water. That girl alone is enough of an argument to make you consider a law where people need a license to mate.

In more exciting news I’m getting cable on Friday. I can’t wait. I’ll then officially waste away my summer. It’s only a matter of time until my first issue of TV Guide comes in the mail. The latest CRL comes out tomorrow. All very exciting stuff. An interesting paragraph like that and I’ll have to really contemplate exactly how many brain cells I’ve killed. I think that might be it for now. I have to go visit ESPN.com for the 49th time today. Until next time.

Friday, June 25, 2004

I am posting this in the spirit of the blog. You see, I've done some soul searching and I've realized that it's not "who" reads it, it's the fact that its there to be ignored. Thats what the internet is all about. Besides, I know that soon this blog will be bustling with the cummulative activity of a bee hive at a picnic of Ritalin-addicted schizophrenics with ADD. (That was one crazy Sunday BTW) So don't fret dear reader (I use the singular for a reason) I will be posting with great consistency from now on. Thank you.

Thursday, June 17, 2004

This sucks because no one is reading my blog. I don't even know why I'm taking time to vent on this thing because I'm the only one who will read it. Ironic, eh? I think so and I'm the only one who's reading it so 100% of my readership agrees.

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

I'm interning at a magazine this summer called "Capital Region Living." For next month I'm supposed to write an article on alpacas. I thought I would drop the web address of the Owners & Breeders official web-site. Here you can learn all about the animal that God probably stuffs his own pillow with...assuming the almighty sleeps. I bet he does. So here ya go...
http://www.alpacainfo.com/index.html

I’ve been fighting this for a while now. Ever since I heard it on the radio for the second time. The first time it was a novelty. The second, an affront to everything I love about our overpopulated, supersaturated pop-culture controlled music scene today. I wrestled with whether this was the pinnacle or antithesis of popular culture. Was this the exception that proved the rule? No, this was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
The first time I laughed, but not again. No more. This was ridiculous. My hatred for William Hung was semi-immediate. After his comedic remix gained air-play on radio stations making fun of him.

Not to mention those fucking turncoats at FUSE. A station that revels in not becoming what MTV did. The station that has satirical commercials poking at MTV series like “Newlyweds” protests anything but music on a music video channel and yet who produced the music video of this retarded hack and showed the “Making of the Video?” FUSE. Fucking hypocrites.

I would gladly sacrifice any two of my immediate family members to see the death of William Hung in an Iraqi torture camp. I would gladly give up my fertility to see William Hung, and every greedy, senseless, idiot, record executive who has had any association with this “man’s” record deal die a terribly painful and excruciatingly horrible death. I would without hesitation cast my first born into an active volcano for the opportunity to cast everyone who purchased the “Inspiration” album into the fiery depths of Mordor.
If William Hung turned out to be a cult leader and got everyone to drink the punch, I would dance for a year straight. I would not stop celebrating until my heart exploded from happiness and utter exhaustion. Never before have I wanted to kick a “celebrity” in the face more. However, I would hesitate to kick Hung in the face for fear that he would end up looking even the slightest bit closer to normal.
If I ever received a one album deal from a recording label I record tracks that would dream up elaborate ends of this man’s life that would make the 50 Cent sound like 98 Degrees. I would spew venom of my hatred for this man and everyone who has anything to do with his rise to the front and center of the public eye that would make people say out loud, “You know, I don’t think that Tupac/Biggie thing was so bad.” I want to bash William Hung in a way that would make Eminem’s detractors think, “Slim Shady isn’t really so bad. He is after all protected under freedom of speech.”
I would like to go on national television and say things about these morons that would cause Michael Powell to furrow his brow and say “Who?” when the name Howard Stern is mentioned.

If there was ever a reason to stop the juggernaut that is American Idol, Billy Hung is it. He’s got a porn-star name, but I’d rather see him play the lead in a snuff film.

I dream of a William Hung suicide. I can’t fall asleep at night without trying to come up with clever headlines for the announcement of his death. “William Hung Himself” “The Jury is Hung on his Legacy…and so is he” “Ironically in life he was William Hung, in death he’ll be known as William Hare Kari”
I can picture the taped suicide message. “I ty vewy haad but it to much even fo me but my mom want let me go outside wivout my jacket.” Fucking goofy looking bastard.

Of course it will be released with 3 different remixes as B-sides. It will shoot up the charts.